


Lessons

by rabidchild67



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pallas bathes Lazar and learns a few things about his history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Lazar as an older dude, like in his late 30s? 
> 
> Fill for [this prompt](http://captive-prince-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=5647#cmt5647) at the Captive Prince Kink Meme.

“Is it really all right to come here?” Lazar asks, not for the first time.

“With no slaves, there is no need for slave baths,” Pallas says in heavily accented Veretian. “Nikandros says this part of the keep is to be used to house the Kings Men now. The baths are included, no?” 

Lazar grins at him. “Yes!” He winces as he tries to take an unsupported step forward. They’ve been traveling the Akielon countryside, cleaning out small pockets of Kastor’s faction, and fell into it with a larger than expected force that morning. Lazar had been thrown from his saddle, his ankle twisted in the stirrup. Paschal had pronounced it unbroken, but he still could not walk easily. Pallas had suggested a soak in the baths might help, a twinkle in his eye suggested much more, and so here they are. 

Pallas leads him to the edge of the bathing pool, and moves off to fetch supplies. Lazar unfastens his cloak and is beginning on the laces to his jacket when a hand forestalls him. “Will you allow me to attend you?”

“Attend? Me?” He snorts. “Who am I to be attended?”

“Who is any man to be attended that needs attention?” Pallas replies, a crooked smile on his face that was the second thing about him Lazar had noticed—the first being the fact he was an Akielon who wore his armor very well. Pallas takes Lazar’s hands and draws them down, then proceeds to slowly unlace Lazar’s leathers. He draws them off, followed by the simple cotton undershirt and Lazar’s breeches and boots. Soon, Lazar stands before him, as unabashed in his nakedness as a man used to living in a barracks can be, but there is something in Pallas’ expression that makes him very aware of it. Pallas smiles, a light in his pale hazel eyes; being on the road has made it difficult for them to be naked together often, and neither man is immune to the novelty of it. Pallas gestures to the bath. 

It takes some maneuvering on wet tiles more treacherous for a man with an injured ankle, but soon enough Lazar is submerged, seated on the tiled ledge built into the small bathing pool with his arms resting on the edges. It’s the work of a moment for Pallas to disrobe, and he slips silently in, as graceful as the roe that run in great herds over the plains of Akielos. Narrow-hipped and broad of shoulder, Lazar had not seen another who had quickened his heart as Pallas had, and while their lack of understanding of each other's language had initially been a challenge, it had not been a hindrance. Pallas' interest had been made clear by the way he'd looked at Lazar—bright, cocksure, and appraising when Lazar could see, longingly when he thought he could not. 

Now they are a constant pair, thrown together as an example of the efforts of two once-warring nations now attempting to unite—not that either minds. The Kings’ Men, as they were called, had been chosen from among the best of King Laurent's guard and those Akielons who had distinguished themselves at Charcy. 

Pallas takes up a phial from the basket he’d brought over and unstoppers it, pouring out some of its contents onto a sponge; he wets it in the warm water and comes forward. He takes Lazar’s arm by the wrist; Lazar lets him. “You have these scars,” he says as he moves the sponge over Lazar’s forearm. Suds dripping from the sponge into the water smell of lavender. “I have always wondered about them—but tell me to stop if you find me impertinent.”

“They are nothing—from sword training, when I was a young man, younger than you.” He smiles at the memory of his boyhood spent training for the army—from the start he’d been meant for the Prince’s guard, serving Auguste at first. “Those are my lessons,” he says, quoting Adric, the old swordmaster, who’d used that term whenever there was an injury. Lazar never needed to learn a lesson twice—that’s what’s helped him survive. 

“Important lessons.”

“Yes.”

Pallas moves on to washing Lazar’s chest and belly. He applies the sponge so lightly, it almost tickles. It is a distraction, but not as much as Pallas’ nearness. Lazar takes the opportunity that solitude and proximity afford to stare openly at the younger man who stands before him. His dark hair curls at the ends now, weighted down by the steam from the hot springs that feed the baths, his olive skin flushed all over with the heat of the water. Lazar, too, is flushed, but the water is not the only reason. Pallas’ fingers trace a trail through the thick hair on Lazar’s belly. 

“If you keep that up, we’ll need another bath.” 

Pallas gazes down at him, long-lashed. “Would that be so bad?” he says, resting a hand on the edge of the small pool and leaning forward. Lazar can smell the honey on his breath. His tongue darts out, moistening lush lips the color of summer berries. 

Lazar would offer a witty remark if he could think of one; instead he kisses Pallas, who melts against his body as if made of spun sugar, and resting a knee between Lazar’s legs on the bench on which he sits. 

Pallas raises a hand to Lazar’s cheek, sighing as their lips part. “You have more scars, beneath your beard,” he says. “More lessons?”

Lazar gently pulls Pallas’ hand away. “Nothing like that—I survived the pox as a boy. I grew a beard as soon as I could, to hide them.”

Gentle fingers pet his cheek. “I like the beard, it is very distinguished.”

Lazar smiles, bemused to find his opinion matters.

“I will wash your back now.”

Lazar rises up slightly so he can turn around while Pallas reapplies soap to the sponge. When he turns back, Lazar can hear the low gasp he quickly stifles. He winces—it’s been so long he’s nearly forgotten the scars on his back. Has Pallas never had occasion to glimpse them? No, not in the light of day, Lazar realizes.

“They are like the one King Damianos bears.”

“There are not as many as that,” Lazar demurs.

“Who did this?” Pallas’ voice shakes with emotion, as if he would ride off this moment to exact vengeance.

“I did this,” Lazar says and, with only a trace of bitterness, “another lesson.” When there is no response from behind him, he explains, “It was three years ago, perhaps four. I defended Prince Laurent to that ox Govart, may he rot in hell. He had me whipped for it—twenty lashes.”

The sponge wipes at his shoulders tentatively. “You were defending your prince, this is noble.”

“The Regent’s court was not a noble place.” 

“You ought to have been rewarded, not punished.”

“It was foolish. I knew he was goading me, and I ought to have held my tongue.” He’d been allowed to recover from the injury in a private cabin adjacent to the barracks, that he’d subsequently been able to keep as his own. He suspects Prince Laurent was behind the accommodation.

The sponge makes its way down his ribs, to the small of his back, and to the water line. “You are as clean as I can make you, do you want to rinse?”

Lazar turns. Pallas stands before him, the water lapping at him just above his waist. Lazar submerges himself to rinse, sees Pallas through the clear water and moves closer. Pallas’ cock is half hard from their kissing, and Lazar puts his mouth it. He earns a wet smack on the top of his head for his troubles, and comes up for air, spluttering. “What are you doing, you will drown!” Pallas scolds, his smile—never long gone—returning.

“So? I will drown here with you, is there a better way to go?”

“I’d prefer you didn't ‘go’ at all.”

Pallas is pouting, prettily, and it is the most attractive thing Lazar has ever known. Lazar takes a step forward, arms reaching for Pallas, but he lands on his injured ankle and falls back into the water with a yelp of pain. Pallas helps him to the bench once more and he sits back, bedraggled but happy. 

“There is one lesson you keep forgetting—do not walk on a sprained ankle!” Pallas says as he pulls away. 

Lazar reaches for him and pulls him into his lap. “If this is my punishment, let it be so!” he says as they kiss. 

 

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
